


Pine

by sweetheartdean



Series: SPN Kink Bingo 2019 [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bondage, Bottom Sam Winchester, Dubious Consent, Fuck Or Die, Handcuffs, Lawyer Sam Winchester, M/M, PWP, Sibling Incest, Witch Sam Winchester, due to, i really needed some lawyer!witch!sam in my life, so I wrote it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-05
Updated: 2019-01-05
Packaged: 2019-10-04 22:04:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17312669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetheartdean/pseuds/sweetheartdean
Summary: Sam Wesson is a lawyer and a witch, two things Dean Winchester hates. But when Dean ends up cursed on the job, he has no other choice but to come knocking at his brother's door.





	Pine

**Author's Note:**

> For the SPN Kink Bingo 2019, the square "bondage".
> 
> Dedicated to my darling allebsupernova who co-created so many wonderful witch!Sam AUs with me. <3
> 
> A huge thank you to julia-sets for betaing!

Sam Wesson is known to the entire town of Stepford Smiling, Pleasantville as the nicest guy ever. Sam Wesson holds the doors open, smiles at babies, and takes part in fundraisers. He goes to church every Sunday. Sam Wesson is a lawyer and is always happy to counsel people who need him even when he’s off the clock.

Sam Wesson’s house has a little garden he takes care of himself. He knows every neighbor by the name. He comes to housewarmings and helps people move.

Sam Wesson is a fraud and a big, fat phony. 

Dean Winchester would know. Once upon a time, they used to have the same last name.

Sam’s scowling at Dean and tapping his foot on the floor like he’s not chained in the basement of his own home but is sitting in the line in DMV. His hair keeps falling in his face and he blows it off, stubborn since his hands are a little busy being held down in cuffs. His lip is split and bleeding. Didn’t really feel like coming along peacefully when he saw Dean’s face, so Dean had to convince him. 

“Did you really have to chain me up? I know we didn’t part on the best terms, but this is overkill,” Sam says and makes a show on tugging on his chains, his back arched. No give, not even when he whispers what is undoubtedly a spell under his breath. Dean isn’t some rookie. The handcuffs are engraved and a hundred percent witch-proof. Or so Bela told him. Make no mistake, Dean doesn’t trust Bela as far as he could throw her, but if she fucked him over on this, she’d lose a somewhat loyal customer who keeps buying her overpriced trinkets.

It’s not overkill, either. Last time they saw each other, Sam tried to curse him. Maybe Dean had it coming, maybe he didn’t. History is written by the winners, and neither of them was a winner that day, so the jury’s still out on that one.

“Good to see you too, Sam,” Dean says, arms crossed over his chest. “Nice place you got over here. Who’d you curse to get it?”

“I earned that money fair and square.” Sam stares at him. “I’m—”

“The second best attorney at your firm, I know. I’ve looked into what you’ve been up to. Ever slip a love potion to the other side?”

“I don’t have to, because I’m a damn good lawyer,” Sam scoffs. “Are you here to kill me?”

“What?” Dean blinks. “I— No, dude. Of course not.”

“Just want to have a beer and catch up, then? Sure, Dean. How’s Dad?” 

“You don’t give a shit about how he is.”

“True, I don’t,” Sam says easily. “But I am shocked he’s not beating on my door with you. Did you ever tell him?”

“Tell him what? That you ran off to study magic, not just Criminal Law 101? Of course not. He’d…”

“Hunt me down,” Sam finishes. “I’m shocked you didn’t.”

Yeah, well. Dean did always have a soft spot for Sam. And right now, Sam was his sore spot, too.

He grew up. Taller and bigger, his eyes way more foxlike than Dean ever remembers them being. Maybe it’s part of being a lawyer. Maybe it’s part of being a witch. Sounds like both require you to chip away at your humanity day after day.

Or maybe it’s just part of growing up. 

It’s hard to see that wide-eyed little brother in him. Dean’s got a vivid memory carefully stored in the back of his mind, Sam pleading to get a puppy when they’d been staying at Pastor Jim’s for a couple months already, and Dean having to steel his heart to explain to him that it’s not an option. Dad’s gonna come back real soon, and we’ll have to drive off again, and it’s not fair on the dog to live in the car, huh? It wants to run around, Sammy, you know that, it wouldn’t be happy. 

He can barely put that Sammy and the man in front of him together. 

“I need you to do something for me,” Dean says, jittery. Sam looks relaxed, in spite of being in an obviously vulnerable position.

“Do you always knock people out when you need something from them? Drag them to a basement? Shackle them?” Sam looks up at Dean, mouth twisted in a sarcastic smile. “Can’t imagine you make many friends this way.”

“Not here to make friends.” 

“Okay, sure,” he says. “You’ve reached Spellbucks. How may I help you today? Would you like a white hex mocha with a side of a go fuck yourself panini?”

“Enough,” Dean snaps. “A witch put a curse on me right as I was ganking her. And I got no idea what that was. Need some… magic consulting.”

“You killed someone and they cursed you? Boo hoo. The dead witch is still the one having the worse day.” Sam clicks his tongue and then looks Dean over, his eyes flashing purple for a split-second. “For now, that is.” 

“The hell’s that supposed to mean?”

“Unchain me first.”

“Nope. You can tell me like this or I’m walking out that door.”

“But then you’ll have to go looking for another witch to take the curse off. And you have no guarantee they’ll do it. You’re in a bit of a pickle.” Sam hums. “How about you offer me a carrot instead?” 

Dean stares him down. Sam’s got some fucking nerve. Not a trace of that shy little kid left. All the objections and all the spells must’ve made him feel invincible over the years. “What do you want?” he grits through his teeth.

“Finally, we’re on the same page,” Sam says. “I want these.” He jerks his wrists and the cuffs jingle. “I have a conflict with my fellow witches. So I could really use them.”

“Fine. You take the curse off me, I’ll give them to you,” Dean says after a beat. It’s not like Sam asked for a weapon of mass destruction. If he takes a couple witches out, less work for Dean to do. “Now spill. What’s wrong with me?”

“Oh man, where do I start?”

“The goddamn curse. What’s it doing to me?” 

“It’s what we witches call a horndog curse.” Sam laughs, throwing his head back. Like this is the most hilarious thing he’s ever heard or something. “You didn’t tell me the entire story, did you? You hit on her before you killed her.”

“Before I knew she was the witch I’m hunting.”

“Maybe you just didn’t want to call her back,” Sam says, bratty. “Do you kill your way out of all awkward situations these days?”

“Only when someone drops three bodies in a row.”

“Oh.” That gives Sam pause. He has the dignity to look upset over his colleague murdering people, at least. “Okay. See, what she did was turn up the dial of your desire up to eleven. First, you’ll just want more sex, but soon enough you’ll spend your days looking for relief, forgetting about everything.” Sam reaches out with the tip of his boot, dragging it up Dean’s ankle. “Sleep, food, water, like a rat that keeps pressing the pleasure button over and over and over again. A really nasty death. You’ll realize what’s happening on some level, but you won’t be able to stop.”

“I got the fucking picture. Can we skip ahead to where you wave your hands around and take the curse off?”

“Yeah. Not so quick. Properly undoing a curse often takes more than that. In this case, it’s very much hair of the dog kind of a situation.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning just that. It would take another round of sex to undo the curse. Ritualistic sex, to be specific. Right here is okay, I suppose. We’ll paint a pentagram over there.” 

“Whoa, whoa. Who am I supposed to be having sex with, again?”

Sam raises his eyebrow. “Dean, you can’t possibly be that thick.”

“You? No. No way.” 

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Sam points out like it’s all chill. Sure, they experimented back in the day, but that was all behind them. Had to be. Dean doesn’t have it in himself to be gentle anymore, but he doesn’t want to be cruel, either. That was supposed to go into the “nice (albeit really fucked up) memories with his long-lost little brother” folder, not be yet another thing said little brother ruined when he burned every bridge he could find. “It has to be a witch and you and I don’t have the time to go looking for another taker. We’ve been through this. I’m sorry, but we have no other choice.”

Dean runs his hand through his hair. Sam must’ve picked up on his distress because he puts on this sad puppy face he always makes when he feels sorry for someone. 

“And I promise it’s okay if you don’t call me in the morning,” he jokes weakly to try and break the tension a little, but Dean’s not laughing. 

“There’s no other way to take this spell off?”

“Unless you feel like drinking frog stew from my hands for a month and dance naked under the moon every other day, no.” He stares at Dean and shakes his head. “I just made that up. Nice to know you would prefer drinking frog stew to having sex with me again, though.”

“Shut your face and let’s get crackin’,” Dean says, kicking away a rag to clear some space for a pentagram. 

“Sure! How about you take these chains off?”

“Nope.”

“I guess I’ll just have to tell you what to do, then.” Sam leans back in his chair. 

Dean grits his teeth. It’s going to be a long night.

\--- 

He’s pretty damn good at painting pentagrams, not to toot his own horn or anything. Years of drawing sigils will do that to you, especially since the smallest error could be the difference between killing the thing or ending up as dinner. John had them practice over and over again until their fingers grew numb and the lines got shaky. This one had to be large, since they both need to fit in it, lying down. For reasons Dean doesn’t want to think about. The one thing he realizes for sure while crawling across this basement and painting shit is that Sam hasn’t lied to him about the curses’ effect. The basement was chilly when the two of them first stumbled in, but now he’s sweating buckets. Dean had to take off his jacket and his flannel. His t-shirt and underwear are uncomfortably clinging in all the places anyway, soaked through.

And he can’t stop thinking about fucking, even more than usual. Naked bodies keep writhing in the blackness he sees every time he blinks, and he’s got an urge to get creative with the handle of the brush a few times already. Everything looks phallic or fuckable. It’s like a second puberty with an extra promise of impending doom. Unless he fucks Sam over there, that is.

Fucking his brother is pretty damn bad. Knowingly fucking a witch isn’t great either. But fucking a guy who’s both and letting him off the hook after with a magic tchotchke and a bow on top? Dean isn’t the praying type, but he ought to pray the news doesn’t travel to John. 

He lights the candles and throws around the petals of the flowers from the jar Sam told him to grab from his kitchen.

“So romantic,” Sam says. “And all for me.”

“This better work, Sabrina. Alright, what’s next?”

“Next? Well, next we have to rip the band-aid off—” Sam yelps when Dean yanks him on his feet by his shoulder. Damn, the guy’s freakishly tall these days, shooting up at the very least a couple inches since Dean saw him last. Dean didn’t really have the time for that to sink in during their (embarrassingly short for Sam) fight. 

“Ground rules. I’m the pitcher. You’re the catcher.”

“You’re the boss,” Sam shrugs like he fucks someone better every other day. Dean urges him into the pentagram. They’re supposed to fuck here. On the floor. Dean’s fucked in some questionable beds and against the wall and in the car, but he’s never had untrammeled lust grip him so hard he had to go at it on the floor with someone like some kind of an animal.

“How are you still being so hesitant about this? You should be aching for me right now just because I’m vaguely humanlike.” Sam frowns, confused. “Unless you’ve been masturbating over and over again ever since you have been cursed?” 

Dean shrugs.

“Did you get off somewhere in my house?” Dean opens his mouth, but Sam furiously shakes his head before he can say anything. “Don’t answer that. Gross,” Sam concludes and sinks down to his knees. “Need, um… something to get you started?”

“I’m fine,” Dean says because there’s no reason to put it off, and, because, well, constant jerking off or no, something tells him he’ll have no problem getting it up. He kneels down next to Sam and catches his eye. “Lie down.” 

Sam takes way too long to move, so Dean grabs a handful of Sam’s hair and pushes him facedown into the pentagram. He topples over easily since his hands are bound together behind his back and it’s clearly throwing him off-balance. Dean makes sure the landing isn’t too hard, cushioning his fall with his hands. His cheek mashed into the floor, and his breathing catching in his throat, and his perky ass up in the air—okay, that curse must really be working its charm because all of a sudden Sam’s the sexiest thing on two legs he’s ever seen.

And obviously, that’s just the curse talking.

“Look at you being all alpha,” Sam says, voice muffled. “Don’t hold out on me now.”

Wouldn’t dream of it. Dean’s not sure if he just thinks it or says it, but all of a sudden, getting Sam’s pants off is imperative numero uno. He undoes the jeans, hands shaking, and yanks them down along with the underwear. Might as well skip the foreplay entirely. They don’t give a flying fuck about each other anymore, and there’s no point in dragging this out.

Sam’s got a pretty little ass. Objectively speaking. Dean gives a tentative squeeze, and, as much as he wants to think the breathy noise coming from Sam is a moan, it sounds more like stifled laughter. 

Well, he’s not going to be laughing much when Dean starts pounding him in earnest. He strokes down Sam’s inner thigh and drags his fingers back up to his ass and... 

Dean comes to a halt, eighty to zero.

“I don’t have lube,” he says, discouraged. 

“No worries. Took care of it with a spell. Part of the perks of bedding a witch.” Sam says, then snorts. “Flooring a witch, I guess. But I’m not floored just yet. You’ll have to try much, much harder than that.”

“Do you ever shut up?” Dean growls, and he’s fed up with it all: that stupid witch who he actually liked until he found her gory altar of gore, the curse that’s making him think with an even more downstairs brain than usual, Sam’s oh-so-witty remarks.

“Make me,” Sam grunts from where he’s slumped over on the floor. “Make me, you bastard—”

Dean shoves two fingers inside Sam without much preamble. “Ouch,” Sam says, but it’s gotta be more out of surprise than anything because he is, indeed, all nice and slick on the inside, like a girl when she’s sopping wet, and this is familiar territory, really, so Dean shifts up on his knees, denim against the bumpy, soggy basement floor. 

He scissors his fingers inside Sam, testing the waters. The waters are warm, alright, warm and tight with just enough give for him to burrow right in. Dean can’t wait to go skinny-dipping. 

He yanks his fingers and sits back on his haunches for a second, looking Sam all over. Ass on display, hair a mess, shirt giving in to the gravity and sliding down to expose the arch of his lower back, the silver of the handcuffs shining against it.

Something hungry twists in his chest, and he barely notices undoing his own jeans or pulling his dick out (and when did he get rock hard again, exactly?) He smears whatever of Sam’s spell-induced wetness was left on his fingers all over his dick, and lines himself up.

The first shove makes his brain all but melt out of his ears. Sam groans, and now that’s definitely not a laugh, and Dean’s fucking glad for it. Had more than enough of this cocky bastard laughing in his face. He yanks Sam flush-close as he bottoms out and drapes himself over Sam’s back, a hand splayed on the grimy floor, a red line of the pentagram running right beside it. Dean ends up wrapping his free arm around Sam’s middle, accidentally brushing against Sam’s dick in the process. Sam bites back a moan. 

Fuck, this feels awesome.

Sam’s warm body is pinned down under his, the steel of the cuffs pressing into Dean’s stomach every time he moves a little too fast, but that’s good, keeps him grounded because this goddamn curse is messing with his head— gotta be the curse, gotta be.

He exhales hard and gets to fucking in earnest. Sam doesn’t make any more stupid-ass remarks, all he does is let out these little breathy noises and squeezes around Dean’s dick, like a good boy. Sam’s hair is hiding his face, but the whiny guttural notes he hits don’t leave a lot to the imagination. Dean leans down and bites the base of Sam’s neck, where the collar of his tee slipped down, a glimpse of his shoulder peeking through.

“Dean,” Sam says, and it’s coming out on a breath like he’s been gut-punched. “Fuck, Dean.” 

If anything, Sam’s gotten even wetter since they started. The noises are positively sloppy and unmistakable, flesh hitting flesh as Dean slams right in. Sam grinds back down the best he can in that trussed-up position, and his fingers keep flexing and grabbing at the front of Dean’s shirt, but he can’t get them to where he really wants to, and the floor’s all too rough to rub off on, and that kind of control goes straight to Dean’s head, fizzy and bubbly like that right degree of happy drunk, a mile and a half past tipsy but still a bunch of miles to go before blackout.

Sam’s still talking, something like, yeah, yeah, just like that, and Dean takes his hand off Sam’s stomach and drags his thumb along Sam’s bottom lip instead, pushes in. Sam opens right up, swallows his fingers up, speech garbled now. So sweet and docile now that Dean’s fucking him right. 

Dean drives into him again, one, two, and Sam bites down on his fingers, not hard but enough for him to feel the sharp edge of Sam’s canines digging in, and that’s when he spills, jerking against Sam almost violently.

He has enough manners (and clarity of mind, surprisingly) to give Sam a few hasty pumps in a reach-around, and thankfully Sam doesn’t need it tender or precise right now.

Something invisible bursts loudly above them, washing over the two of them in a gust of hot air, mussing up clothes and their hair. Not that it needed much extra help at this point. 

“I’m going to be so sore,” Sam whines as Dean pulls out. “Ew. You didn’t use protection. That curse must’ve been really getting to you. At least I hope that’s what it was and not that you roll the dice every time these days.”

Sam clenches down and come oozes right out of him, dripping down on the grimy floor to join the small white puddle he himself made. Dean’s glad it’s too soon for him to get hard again. 

Not that he would. ‘Cause he’s all better now. It’s even easier to breathe and everything.

Sam rolls over onto his back and glances up at Dean, the corners of his mouth quirked up. Dean rights his clothes and pulls the pack of tissues out of his jacket’s front pocket.

“Hey. Easy,” he says, voice growing softer. Sam’s still Sam, even if he is living a whole different life these days. He felt the same. And his eyes are wide open right now. Could’ve been Dean’s good old Sammy if not for the whole pentagram-y magic crap around them. Dean cleans him up, careful, and helps him straighten out his clothes, zipping his jeans back up and pulling the shirt back in place. He still looks unmistakably disheveled, but it’s a good look.

Dean pulls Sam in. He doesn’t protest, for once. Maybe he’s too worn out from sex, maybe it’s the handcuffs getting in the way, maybe it’s neither of these things.

“You really happy here?” Dean asks at last.

“Would it matter to you if I wasn’t?” Sam asks. His hair is way softer than Dean remembers it being. He must be using some new leave-in conditioner. Not that cheap stuff with enough pine scent flavoring to leave the entire motel bathroom smelling like pine.

The bathrooms haven’t smelled like pine since, and Sam doesn’t either anymore, and Dean’s looking for the wrong things in all the wrong places. 

“It would.”

“Because you’d feel kinda satisfied, wouldn’t you? You’d love to give me a told-you-so. You’ve been waiting for that day since you found my grimoire in 2001. Well, the joke’s on you. I have a nice job. I have a great place to live. I have a quiet life that I love.”

“Do you? That’s an awfully large house for one guy.”

“Not everyone has to have a life partner to be happy, Dean.”

Maybe Sam doesn’t, but shotgun in Dean’s car has been cold and empty since they served each other the irreconcilable differences divorce papers in the middle of the night. I’m going to be a lawyer and I’m gonna do magic and you can’t fucking stop me, Dean, I’m all grown now— a part of Dean wanted to believe this was just a phase, but it’s been a better part of a decade now, and Sam’s set roots in deep.

“I guess they don’t,” Dean says. Sam shrugs and takes Dean’s hand, pressing the handcuffs into his palm.

“I’ve decided I don’t want them anymore. But you should research how this rune is supposed to look.” He taps his finger on one of the sigils carved into the cuffs. “Otherwise, they’re useless.”

Dean stares at Sam.

“I’m really pissed you won’t trust me. I’m not killing people, Dean. I would never hurt you, either, unless you started swinging first. These witches I have issues with? They’re the dark magic, animal sacrifices types. I don’t let anyone I know get away with that kind of stuff. But I do have a gift, and I refuse to hide it just because you and Dad feel uncomfortable with it.” 

“Wait, you could’ve gotten out of these the whole time?” Dean asks dumbly.

“I would’ve if you tried to kill me. But I always liked what you did with your dick.” Sam exhales through his nose and makes this tiny bitter noise. Yeah, must be hard to pick up guys with his schedule. Morning ‘til night, putting in those billable hours. What? Dean did some light recon before coming over. Fuck, okay, he might’ve been keeping tabs on Sam for a while. Sue him. Or don’t, Sam’s too damn good at suing people. “Not so much what you did with your tongue sometimes.” Dean’s about to get offended at his eating out skills being insulted when he realizes Sam meant the stuff he tends to say when he gets angry.

“Just… see yourself out, okay?” Sam says, getting back to his feet. He makes it halfway to the stairs by the time Dean opens his mouth again.

“You never got that dog, did you?”

Sam looks at him for a very long time.

“No, I didn’t.”

Dean stays on the floor until he hears the basement door slam shut. 

\---

It takes Dean a few weeks of keeping busy with cases before another case featuring a happy little coven of bloodthirsty witches finally makes him sit down and do research on these handcuffs. When he brings them closer to his face to inspect the faulty rune, he catches a whiff of a faint smell. 

Takes Dean a couple seconds to understand it’s pine.

He thinks about Sam’s stupid conditioner and his empty house and the singular plate sadly lying in the bottom of the sink he noticed when he was rummaging through Sam’s spell ingredient cabinets.

He thinks about how Sam asked him not to call in the morning. But, technically, he said nothing about three and a half weeks.

Sam’s Dean’s soft spot. And his sore spot. And his weak spot.

Dean picks up his phone and makes a phone call to the Martin-Bromsley law firm in California.

“I’d like to speak to Sam Wesson, please,” Dean says, and looks out of the motel window onto the eternally similar landscape: a parking lot with a couple cars, a worn-out motel sign, crowded little houses across the road. He’s seen this a million times before, he’ll see it a million times again. It looks nicer than usual today, though, the sun hitting it full force. “Yeah, I’ll hold.” 

He’s not sure what he’s going to say just yet. 

Not the cool, standoffish “hey, the weather’s nice today,” that’s for sure. But not the dog-rolling-over-and-showing-its-stomach worthy “I just realized these stupid handcuffs smell of you and I just wanna be in your goddamn life again somehow even if we both think one of us betrayed the other with this whole witch business, just, fuck, Sammy, please”, either.

It’ll probably be something in between.

“Hello?” Sam’s voice echoes in the phone.

Dean closes his eyes. Sam might be a witch, he might be a lawyer, he might be a thousand other things Dean doesn’t like. But first and foremost, he’s Dean’s little brother, and that will always win him over.

“Hey, Sam,” he says. “I want to do something better with my tongue for once.” Apologize.

Sam laughs. This breathy, airy sound. 

He sounds almost like the Sammy Dean knew and just like the Sam he wants to know.


End file.
